


Sweet Spot

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2013, Library Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley knows all of Aziraphale's weaknesses—every last one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Spot

All across London, people huddled into big coats and bent beneath umbrellas. They dodged in and out of cars and pine-bedecked shop doors, scurried down wet pavements, hopped over puddles but still managed to drench their feet, ankles, knees—indeed every part of them up to and including arms strained by the weight of parcels and packages and bags… They cringed. Shivered. Cursed the skies, which in turn were merrily producing a quite potent wintery cocktail of ice and rain and soaking, grimy sleet.  
  
It wasn't yet midafternoon, but you'd be hard-pressed to realize it.  
  
You'd be dashed to admit the sun was up there at all, clouds or no.  
  
The resulting _chill_ of it made Crowley want to crawl back into bed with the express intent of not waking until spring. Or to at least wheel his flat's industrial-grade thermostat to blazing, sidle into his sofa, and enjoy the company of a neat glass of fine whisky. It was not—in any way—  
  
"The best sort of day for a visit to the library!" Aziraphale proclaimed.  
  
And oh, ho. Surely the angel was mad, finally, at last gone round the bend. The poor bastard. Over the years, in their long time together and _together_ , Crowley'd occasionally wondered what it would mean for one of them to altogether lose it. But he hadn't expected it to take such a gruesome shape. Or for it to be fully-formed upon arrival. Still, he left it at, "You must be joking."  
  
Aziraphale smiled serenely. "Nonsense. And I know what you're thinking."  
  
"Yes?" Crowley folded his arms across his chest.  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale agreed. He slid several inches over on the settee, his thigh aligning with Crowley's. Then he set his hand upon said thigh. "I'll have you know that an afternoon in the library will _hardly_ impact your schedule. There are still twenty-one days before Christmas, and not a soul in town is desperate enough yet to be wiled over a set of draughts."  
  
"I've never _wiled_ anyone over _draughts_ ," Crowley huffed. Then, watching Azirapahle's smile curl into a grin: "Please don't tell me you've—"  
  
"Heavens, Crowley. Of course not. What sort of _flâneur_ do you think I am?" Aziraphale's hand inched up. His fingers coiled round Crowley's belt. And he leaned forward to catch Crowley's mouth in a kiss, firm and wet and utterly enticing. Crowley had half a mind to pull Aziraphale onto his lap and resolve the question of the library and the problem of the chill with one stone: sometimes the old ways _were_ best.  
  
As if anticipating the thought, Aziraphale shifted in a little closer and did something interesting with is tongue.  
  
"Cheap, angel. Very cheap," Crowley protested—after all, he was sure he'd _taught_ Aziraphale that one—but halfheartedly: if Aziraphale had it in his head to change Crowley's mind, Crowley might as well reap the benefit.  
  
Ten minutes later they were settled in the Bentley, Aziraphale folding his hands over his lap, a picture of patience, as if this was what Crowley'd wanted all along. Well. Judging by the warmth that was still tingling down to Crowley's toes, maybe he had.  
  
*  
  
"Crowley. Please be quiet." Aziraphale didn't look up from his manuscript. He didn't even stop penciling shorthand on the notepaper to its side.  
  
"I didn't say anything," Crowley hissed in return. It wasn't much of a comeback, but he made a point to keep working his thumbs across the screen of his mobile. Wireless reception inside the library was generally poor to nonexistent, but he was in the thick of a rather juicy forum flame war and so expected nothing but the most lethal precision from his chosen weaponry.  
  
Aziraphale sighed. "You were cackling."  
  
"I wasn't." Crowley slumped a little further into his chair. He was stretched fully out, legs extended and propped up, with his boot heels set on the edge of the long table. _Tap, tap, tap._  
  
"Crowley—"  
  
" _You're_ the one who's causing a row. Besides, there's no one else in here."  
  
"That isn't the point. Look: the sooner I finish with this, the sooner we can leave," Aziraphale said. And then, cheerily: "Surely there must be something you'd like to look up while we're here, hmm? There's a good fellow."  
  
In fact, there was. Crowley had lately found his interest piqued by the cultivation of certain tropical, carnivorous plants. But he only said, "Doubtful."  
  
He let his feet drop to the floor and then pushed his chair noisily back. He rolled his eyes in answer to Aziraphale's grimace. Then he set off in the direction of the digital catalogue.  
  
 _Nepenthes_ returned one thousand seven hundred and forty-two results. Crowley smiled and clicked on the third link from the top: _Help! My Pitcher Plant Ate My Hat, My Pet Gerbil, and My Husband, and Other Stories of Home_ Nepenthaceae _Enjoyment._  
  
It was a good start. He jotted down the call number and began navigating the stacks.  
  
  
An hour or more passed before Crowley made his way back to Aziraphale. He'd hardly care to admit it, but the angel was right: his research had been fruitful. The question wasn't whether a bloodthirsty flora might be a welcome addition to his collection of palms, ferns, and ivies, but rather how _many_ he'd need to acquire to suitably scare the knickers off even his most truculent blooms.  
  
"So much for the neighborhood," he chuckled, turning round a corner and into the main reading room. If Aziraphale had moved, it couldn't have been by more than a hairsbreadth, for there he was, mumbling to himself, consulting his text and taking notes in quick bursts of attention. There was a bay window some distance behind him, and the rain pattered against the panes in low tremolo. The day outside still didn't afford much light.  
  
But Aziraphale's chin was propped up by the heel of his hand, his mouth moving almost imperceptibly. The desk lamps to either side of him reflected abstractions across his glasses, and the soft, warm light cast his normally pale face in gold.  
  
He seemed at once _larger_. Greater, as if all the length and breadth of his self had expanded of its own volition and in that moment was leaking round his edges. As if there was simply more _of_ him.  
  
Crowley's mouth went dry. His palms itched. And it may well have been his imagination, but he thought his heart hitched in his chest, just for an instant, hardly worth noting, really nothing to worry about—then it happened again, and the sensation was met with an equally pleasurable stirring in the pit of his stomach. Oh, Crowley _wanted_ him.  
  
And he knew how to make Aziraphale return the sentiment.  
  
He retreated back the way he'd come and, on a hunch, trotted round to the maintenance corridor. At the end of it was another door that opened into the rear of the reading room, and closing it quietly behind him, he padded out.  
  
Aziraphale turned a page.  
  
And Crowley touched Aziraphale's back, his fingers pressing into the rough tweed, high to low along his spine, between the shoulder blades.  
  
Between where his wings would be.  
  
The angel shivered. "Crowley," he said, the word manifesting as little more than a puff of breath. "What are you doing?"  
  
Crowley did it again. Then he smiled and murmured, "Sneak attack."  
  
"Crowley…" This time it was more of a moan. Aziraphale dropped his pencil, and his knuckles whitened as he balled his hands into fists. "This is hardly the place…"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
A third stroke produced what indeed _was_ a moan, far louder, full of the slightest bit of irritation but also encouragement—and utmost pleasure. "We can't," he managed. "Not here."  
  
"Utility closet?"  
  
Aziraphale turned round and met Crowley's eye. "You're incorrigible."  
  
Crowley leaned in to kiss Aziraphale squarely on the mouth, then began working his way down Aziraphale's jaw and throat, nibbling here and there until he made it to the earlobe, nipping lightly as he whispered, "And you're easy." He touched Aziraphale's back again before taking him by the hand and pulling him to his feat.  
  
Aziraphale at first put up a fight – he reached for the manuscript and tried (and failed) to explain why he found its presence more agreeable than Crowley's – but it was only for show. Crowley led him out of the reading room and into the corridor.  
  
Until a few seconds before, the closet had been locked. But the knob turned agreeably when Crowley set his hand on it, and it likewise made no complaints at being fused shut rather than locked again when the door slammed closed behind them.  
  
"Crowley," Aziraphale said between kisses. Crowley was making short work of divesting the angel of his clothes, tie and waistcoat and—"Hold on."  
  
"What?" Crowley panted.  
  
"You said this was a utility closet."  
  
In fact, it was apparently something more akin to a literary repair shop. There were several tables stacked with books in obvious want of rebinding, reconditioning, and in several instances, retirement. "I assumed it was," Crowley said. But before Aziraphale could slip from his grasp, Crowley snapped his fingers. The five-dozen or so books which had filled the nearest table disappeared for an instant before rematerializing on the floor in a couple of neat stacks. Remarkably, they were all now in immaculate condition.  
  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "Oh dear…"  
  
"So? I'm good with my hands," Crowley mocked defensiveness. Then he pushed Aziraphale backwards. The angel's thighs bumped into the now-clear table, and Crowley hoisted him up to sit on the edge of it.  
  
"Mm." Aziraphale was carding his fingers through Crowley's hair, rubbing the fine wisps at the back of his neck, while Crowley expertly worked at two sets of buckles and buttons and zips.   
  
After a moment, he let out a short, breathy laugh. "Angel. You aren't wearing pants."  
  
"You don't say," Aziraphale huffed, taking Crowley in his hand. "And you aren't the only one with a certain touch."  
  
It was good. Really a bit spectacular. Their cocks aligned, they worked in tandem, stroking, pressing, each provoking delirious mumblings from the other. Crowley reached inside Aziraphale's unbuttoned shirt, his palm snaking round to rub at Aziraphale's back.  
  
"Crowley, I—" Aziraphale cut off as he came, his grip tightening on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley wasn't far behind. For several long moments, they held on to each other. Gasps dissipated into heaving, sated breaths. Crowley let out a little laugh.  
  
Then, without preamble, the lights went out.  
  
"Er," said Crowley. He straightened, taking a step back so Aziraphale could slide down from the table. It didn't take long for his eyes to adjust. He'd always had excellent night-vision. And so the first thing he saw was Aziraphale's mouth spread into a grin.  
  
"Closing time," he chirped. He'd finished setting his fly to right and had started on his shirt. "Is it five o'clock already?"  
  
Quickly, they finished dressing. Aziraphale took Crowley's elbow and they made their way back down the corridor, through the reading room, into the lobby, and outside. It was still cold and damp. There were myriad puddles to hop over. But it had stopped raining.  
  
As they were folding back into the Bentley, Crowley asked, "Did you find what you were looking for? At the library?"  
  
Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. "I know what you were thinking, Crowley. That I was mad to suggest we visit the library today! But it wasn't all bad, eh?" he said. Then he snuck a hand out to tickle Crowley's arse.  
  
Crowley's eyes widened and he gave an involuntary shudder. "Just—just what do you think you're playing at?"  
  
"Really, my dear," Aziraphale drawled. Then he reached over and tickled him again. "I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about."  
  
If Crowley drove a little faster than usual to get them back to his flat—well. That was neither here nor there. Aziraphale, for his part, was all patience.


End file.
